‘We are honoured by the presence among us of Germanicus Julius Caesar, our governor,’ announced Caecina.
The centurions were well schooled – and relieved that their supreme commander had arrived. A loud cheer went up.
‘I give you the imperial governor,’ said Caecina, half bowing to Germanicus and stepping back.
More cheering erupted.
Tall, imposing, Germanicus stood forward, and raised his hands for calm. ‘The time for celebration is not here yet, I am afraid. Having seen the gravity of the situation with my own eyes’ – and he gave Tullus a nod of appreciation – ‘the only way to placate the legionaries is to agree to their demands, in principle at least. I can see that you like that as little as I do, but there are few options open to me. I propose sending a letter to the mutineers’ leaders.’
Germanicus threw a look at Tubero, who all but preened himself. ‘Legate Tubero came up with the idea: a letter purporting to have Tiberius’ authority. It will grant discharge to legionaries who have served for twenty years and longer. Soldiers with sixteen or more years of service will receive a conditional discharge; their only obligation will be to fight – if there is need – in the four years following their release from the legions. Their official donative will be doubled. Legionaries’ pay will also be increased, by a half.’
Tullus saw his own disbelief mirrored in almost every centurion’s face. The mutineers weren’t stupid, he thought. Tiberius was known for his steady, cautious nature. He wasn’t the type to offer such generous terms, without any fight whatsoever. Was anyone prepared to say so, though?
Germanicus was an observant man. He sensed their unhappiness. ‘What is it? Speak up,’ he ordered, his gaze roaming from face to face. They settled on Tullus. ‘Well?’
Tullus took a deep breath. ‘They won’t fall for it, sir. I have no idea how the emperor thinks, the gods bless him forever, but I doubt that he would capitulate to such demands in the first instance. The mutineers will think the same.’ Tullus could hear no voices agreeing with him, and his guts churned.
Germanicus’ lips tightened, but he uttered no rebuke. Beside him, Caecina was scowling and Tubero’s cheeks were marked by red pinpricks of fury. Germanicus eyed the centurions again. ‘Are any of you of the same opinion?’
‘I am, sir.’ Surprising Tullus yet again, it was Cordus who had spoken. ‘They’ll be expecting to haggle over their demands, not just have them agreed to straight away.’
There were some rumbles of agreement, but few centurions would meet Germanicus’ eyes. It wasn’t surprising, thought Tullus, hoping that he hadn’t done the wrong thing. Only fools disagreed with high-ranking officials, let alone the emperor’s heir.
‘Can you offer me any other immediate choices?’ asked Germanicus.
A resounding silence followed, broken only by the drunken shouts of legionaries outside the principia.
We could sit and wait, thought Tullus. Send for the legions upriver, in Germania Superior. The local auxiliaries could even be used to put down the rebellion. He had had enough, however, of speaking up, of offering himself as the sacrificial sheep. While Germanicus held Tullus in some regard, Tubero still had it in for him, and was more than capable of turning Caecina, and perhaps even Germanicus himself, against him. Tullus had spent too long in the wilderness to risk losing the regard of his newfound, powerful benefactor, so he stitched his lip.
‘In that case, we shall proceed with the letter,’ declared Germanicus. ‘May the gods ensure that it puts an end to this madness.’
The divine help that Germanicus had wished for did not materialise. Some hours after the letter had been delivered to the mutineers’ leaders under a flag of truce, a vast crowd of legionaries assembled outside the principia. Many were drunk, and all were irate. Shouting that Germanicus should come forth – he did, with Tullus and his full century as protection – they destroyed his letter, calling it a forgery. Their demands were repeated, and this time, the legionaries threatened, they were ‘to be looked at with the respect they deserve’. In other words, Bony Face shouted, a settlement had better be forthcoming within a day, or Germanicus could expect to have the principia burned down around his noble ears. With him inside, the twins added, to a swelling roar of approval.
The furious mutineers didn’t wait for a reply. Their intimidating threats hung in the air as they marched off.
‘Curse them to Hades! Their insolence is unforgivable,’ snarled Germanicus. He glanced at Tullus, who was quick to keep his expression blank. There could be no ‘I told you so’ attitude with someone so high-ranking.
‘You were right,’ admitted Germanicus after a long moment. ‘They’re no fools.’
‘As you say, sir,’ replied Tullus in a neutral tone. ‘We’ll make them pay in the end.’
‘Indeed, but other matters are more pressing,’ muttered Germanicus. ‘What to do now?’
Tullus wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical, and discretion was the more prudent choice. He said nothing.
‘I could promise them an increase in pay, to be given on their return to barracks,’ said Germanicus. He shot a look at Tullus. ‘Would that work?’
Caught by Germanicus’ penetrating stare, Tullus had to answer. Hating the fact that he was a poor liar, he answered, ‘Men like to feel coin in their hands, sir, not listen to the promise of it days into the future.’
‘I am the imperial governor,’ said Germanicus, his jaw hardening. ‘I’ll not roll over to them, d’you hear?’
‘I understand, sir,’ said Tullus, thinking: you have to give them something tangible, or more blood will be spilled.
‘Take me inside,’ ordered Germanicus. ‘I must reflect on the best course of action.’
‘Sir.’ Tullus led the way, hoping that inspiration of a better kind would strike Germanicus before the mutineers’ patience ran out.
Tullus’ hopes were in vain. Whether through pride or inability to come up with a better option, Germanicus went ahead with his suggestion to the soldiers that an increase in pay would be paid when they marched back to their camps. Tullus was ordered to deliver the offer to the mutineers the following morning. He wasn’t surprised when Bony Face and his fellows rejected it out of hand. Red-faced with fury, Bony Face whipped his followers into a frenzy. Insults and then stones were thrown. In a calm voice, Tullus had his men close up and draw their swords. A stand-off developed, with both sides nervous and ready to fight, but neither quite prepared to begin the bloodletting. Tullus wanted to pull his soldiers back into the safety of the headquarters, but he had to get an answer for Germanicus first. ‘Will you accept the terms?’ he called out.
Bony Face stalked from the protection of his fellows, closing to within a dozen paces of Tullus’ men’s shields. ‘Tell your governor,’ he hissed, uncaring of the sword tips pointing at his heart, ‘that he had best come up with an offer that we actually believe. He’s got until sunset.’
‘Or what?’ demanded Tullus in a bullish tone.
‘Or I lead four legions against the principia,’ Bony Face retorted. ‘See how long you can hold out then.’
Germanicus was incandescent with rage when Tullus relayed the mutineers’ response. ‘The dog said what?’ Germanicus’ bellow was as loud as a centurion’s best parade roar.
Tullus repeated what he’d been told and, difficult though it was, continued to meet Germanicus’ gaze. ‘You have until sunset to give them your answer.’
‘Until sunset? I, the imperial governor, have to reply to that rabble? I, the emperor’s nephew, have to bandy words with scum who aren’t fit to polish my boots?’ Germanicus emitted a short, high-pitched laugh of disbelief. His eyes, sparking with anger, moved from Tullus to the other officers present. Most, Tubero included, were quick to drop their gaze.